BEING AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DICK RYDER, OTHERWISE
GALLOPING DICK, SOMETIME GENTLEMAN OF THE ROAD

BY H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON

’TWAS two o’clock of a bright wild March day that I cleared St. Leonard’s Forest, and came out upon the roads at the back of Horsham. I was for Reading, but chose that way by reason of the better security it promised, which, as it chanced, was a significant piece of irony. Horsham, a mighty quiet, pretty town, lay in a blaze of the sun, enduring the sallies of a dusty wind, and, feeling hot and athirst after my long ride, I pulled up at an inn and dismounted.

“Host,” says I, when I was come it; “a pint of your best Burgundy or Canary to wash this dust adown; and rip me if I will not have it laced with brandy.”

“Why, sir,” says he, “a cold bright day for horseback,” and shakes his head.

“Damme, you’re right,” says I. “Cold i’ the belly and hot in the groin. Here’s luck to the house, man,” and I tossed off the gallipot. “Why, goodman, ye’ll make your fortune on this,” I said with a derisive laugh, and flung open the door, to go out; when all of a sudden I came to silence and a pause.

“’Tis the officers,” says the landlord, who was at my ear. “Gadslife, ’tis the sheriff’s men from Lewes.”

“Lewes!” says I slowly; “what be they here for?”

“Why,” says he in a flutter, “there was him that was taken for a tobyman by Guilford. He was tried at Lewes, and will hang.”

“If he be fool enough to be taken, let him be hanged and be damned,” says I carelessly.

When I was got upon my horse I began to go at a walk down the High street, for though, as was according to nature, I was inquisitive about the matter, I was too wary to adventure ere I was sure of my ground. And this denial of unnecessary hazards, as is my custom, saved me from a mishap; for as the procession wound along, the traps and the carriage between ’em, there was one of them that turned his head aside to give an order, and, rip me if ’twas not that muckworm, traitor and canter, the thief-taker, Timothy Grubbe. I had an old score with Timothy, the which I had sworn to pay; but that was not the time nor the opportunity, and so I pulled in and lowered my head, lest by chance his evil eye might go my way. As I did so, something struck on the mare’s rump, and, looking back, I saw a young man on horseback that had emerged from a side street.

“Whoa, there,” says I cheerfully. “Are you so blinded by March dust as not to see a gentleman when he goes by?”

He was a slight, handsome-looking youth, of a frank face but of a rustic appearance, and he stammered out an apology.

“Why, I did but jest,” I said heartily. “Think no more on’t, particularly as ’twas my fault to have checked the mare of a sudden. But to say the truth I was gaping at the grand folks yonder.”

He stared, after the traps and says he in an interested voice: “Who be they? Is it my Lord Blackdown?”

Now this comparison of that wry-necked, pock-faced villain Grubbe to a person of quality tickled me, but I answered, keeping a straight face.

“Well, not exactly,” says I, “not my lord, but another that should stand or hang as high maybe, and shall some day.”

“Oh,” says he, gazing at me, “a friend of yours, sir?”

He was a ruddy color, and his mouth was habitually a little open, giving him an expression of perpetual wonder and innocence; so that, bless you, I knew him at once for what he was at heart—a simple fellow of a natural kindliness and one of no experience in the world, and a pretty dull wit.

“Not as you might call him, a friend,” said I gravely, “but rather one that has put an affront upon me.”

“You should wipe it out, sir,” says this innocent seriously. “I would allow no man to put an affront on me, gad, I would not!”

“Why,” said I drily, “I bide my time, being, if I may say so, of less mustard and pepper than yourself. Nevertheless it shall be wiped out to the last stain.”

“Gad, I like that spirit,” says he briskly, and, as if it constituted a bond betwixt us, he began to amble slowly at my side. “If there is any mischief, sir,” says he, “I trust you will allow me to stand your friend.”

Here was innocence indeed, yet I could ha’ clapped him on the back for a buck of good-fellowship and friendliness, and, relaxing my tone, I turned the talk on himself.

“You are for a journey?” says I.

He nodded, and his color rose, but he frowned. “I am for Effingham,” he answered.

“So am I,” said I, “at least I pass that way,” which was not so, for I was for Reading, and had meant to go by Guilford. Yet I was in no mind to risk an encounter with Grubbe and his lambs, who were bound for Guilford if what the innkeeper said was true; and the way by Effingham would serve me as well as another.

He looked pleased, and says he: “Why, we will travel in company.”

“With all my heart!”

The traps had disappeared upon the Guilford road in a mist of dust, and we jogged on comfortably till we came to cross-roads, where we turned away for Slinfold, reaching that village near by two of the clock. Here my companion must slake his thirst, and I was nothing loath. He had a gentlemanly air about him for all his rustic habit, and very pleasantly, if with some awkwardness, offered me of a bottle.

“You mind me,” said I, drinking to him, for I liked the fellow, “of a lad that I knew that was in the wars.”

“Was you in the wars?” asks he eagerly.

I had meant the wars of the road, which, indeed, are as perilous and as venturesome as the high quarrels of ravening nations.

“I served in Flanders,” said I.

“My father fought for His Gracious Majesty Charles I,” says he quickly, “and took a deep wound at Marston Moor. There was never a braver man than Squire Masters of Rockham.”

“I’ll warrant his son is like him,” said I.

He bowed as if he were at Court. “Your servant, sir,” says he, smiling well pleased, and eyed me. “You have seen some service, sir?”

“Why, as much as will serve, Mr. Masters.”

He looked at me shyly. “You have my name, now?” said he, and left his question in the air.

“You may call me Ryder,” said I.

“You have had your company?” he went on in a hesitating voice.

“Not always as good company as this,” I replied, laughing.

“I knew it,” he said eagerly; “you are Captain Ryder?”

“There have been those that have put that style on me,” I answered, amused at his persistence.

“I am glad that I have met you, Captain,” said this young fool, and put his arm in mine quite affectionately.

“I have been unhappily kept much at home, and have seen less than I might of things beyond the hills. Not but what Sussex is a fine shire,” he adds, with a sigh.

“Why, it is fine if so be your home be there,” I replied.

“My home is there,” he said, and paused, and again the frown wrinkled up his brow.

He said no more till we were in the saddle again and had gone some half a mile, and then he spoke, and I knew his poor brain had been playing pitch and toss with some thought.

“Captain Ryder,” he said abruptly, “you have traveled far and seen much. You might advise one junior to you on a matter of worldly wisdom.”

Sink me, thinks I, what’s the boy after? But, says I gravely, from a mutinous face: “You can hang your faith on me for an opinion or a blow, Mr. Masters.”

“Thank you,” says he heartily, and then thrust a hand into his bosom and rapidly stuck at me a document. “Read that, sir,” said he impulsively.

I opened it, and found ’twas writ in a woman’s hand, and subscribed Anne Varley; and the marrow of it was fond affection.

Why, ’twas but a common love billet he had given me, of the which I have seen dozens and received very many—some from persons of quality that would astonish you. But what had I to do with this honest ninny and his mistress? I had no nose for it, and so said I, handing him back his letter.

“It has a sweet smack and ’tis pretty enough inditing.”

“Ah,” says he quickly, “’tis her nature, Captain. ’Tis her heart that speaks. Yet is she denied by her parents. They will have none of me.”

“The more to their shame,” I said.

“They aspire high,” says he, “as Anne’s beauty and virtues of themselves would justify. Yet she does love me, and I her, and we are of one spirit and heart. See you how she loves me, poor thing, poor silly puss! And they would persuade her to renunciation. But she shall not—she shall not; I swear it!” he cried in excitement. “She shall be free to choose where she will.”

“Spoke like a man of temper,” said I approvingly. “You will go win her forthright.”

“I am on my journey to accomplish that now,” says he. “She has writ in this letter, as you have seen, that her father dissuades her, and she sighs her renunciation, adding sweet words of comfort that her affection will not die—no, never, never, and that she will die virgin for me. Say you not, sir, that this is beautiful conduct, and, am I not right to ride forth and seize her from her unnatural parents, to make her mine?”

“Young gentleman,” said I, being stirred by his honest sincerity and his bubbling over, “were you brother to me, or I to Mistress Anne, you should have my blessing.”

At that he glowed, and his spirits having risen with this communication, he babbled on the road of many things cheerfully, but mostly of love and beauty, and the virtues of Mistress Anne of Effingham Manor.

I will confess that after a time his prattle wearied me; ’twas too much honey and cloyed my palate. If he had known as much of the sex as has fallen to my lot he would have taken another stand, and sung in a lower key.

Well, ’twas late in the afternoon when we reached the hills beyond Ewhurst, and began to climb the rugged way to the top. The wind had gone down with the sun in a flurry of gold in the west, to which that eastern breeze had beat all day; and over the head of Pitch Hill last year’s heather still blazed in its decay.

When we had got to the Windmill Inn, that lies packed into the side of the wooded hill, we descended for refreshment, and I saw the horses stalled below for baiting. Now that house, little and quiet, perches in a lonely way in the pass of the hill, and upon one side the ground falls so fast away that the eye carries over a precipitous descent toward the weald of Surrey and the dim hills by the sea. And this view was fading swiftly in the window under a bleak sky as Masters and I ate of our dinner in the upstairs room that looked upon it. He had a natural grace of mind despite the rawness of his behavior, and his sentiments emerged sometimes in a gush, as when, says he, looking at the darkening weald:

“I love it, Captain. ’Tis mine. My home is there, and, God willing, Anne’s too shall be.”

“Amen!” said I heartily, for the boy had gone to my heart, absurd though he was.

And just on that there was a noise without the door, the clank of heavy feet rang on the boards, and Timothy Grubbe’s ugly mask disfigured the room.

He came forward a little with a grin on his distorted features, and, looking from one to the other of us, said he:

“My respects, Captain, and to this young plover that no doubt ye’re plucking. By the Lord, Dick Ryder, but I had given you up. Heaven sends us good fortune when we’re least thinking of it.”

Masters, at his word, had started up. “Who are you, sir, that intrudes on two gentlemen?” he demanded with spirit. “I’ll have you know this is a private room. Get you gone!”

“Softly, man,” says Grubbe, in an insinuating voice. “Maybe I’m wrong and you’re two of a color. Is it an apprentice, Dick, this brave lad that talks so bold and has such fine feathers?”

“If you do not quit,” said I shortly, “I will spit your beauty for you in two ticks.”

“Dick Ryder had always plenty of heart,” said he in his jeering way. “Dick had always a famous wit, and was known as a hospitable host. So I will take the liberty to invite to his sociable board some good fellows that are below, to make merry. We shall prove an excellent company, I’ll warrant.”

Masters took a step toward him.

“Now, who the devil soever you may be, you shall not use gentlemen so,” he cried, whipping out his blade.

But Grubbe turned on him satirically. “As for you, young cockchafer,” said he, “it bodes no good to find you in this company. But as you seem simpleton enough, I’ll give you five minutes to take your leave of this gentleman of the road. Dick, you’re a fine tobyman, and you have enjoyed a brave career, but, damme, your hour is struck.”

I rose, but, ere I could get to him, young Masters had fallen on him.

“Defend yourself, damn ye,” he said, “you that insult a gentleman that is my friend! Put up your blade!” and he made at him with incredible energy.

Uttering a curse Grubbe thrust out his point and took the first onrush, swerving it aside; and ere I could intervene they were at it.

My young friend was impetuous, and as I saw at once, none too skilful; and Grubbe kept his temper, as he always did. He stood with a thin, ugly smile pushing aside his opponent’s blade for a moment or two, until, of a sudden, he drew himself up and let drive very low and under the other’s guard. The sword rattled from Masters’s hand, and he went down on the floor. I uttered an oath.

“By God, for this shall you die, you swine!” said I fiercely; and I ran at him; but, being by the door, he swept it open with a movement and backed into the passage.

“The boot is on t’other leg, Dick,” says he maliciously. “’Tis you are doomed!” and closing the door behind him he whistled shrilly.

I knew what he intended, and that his men were there, but I stooped over the boy’s body and held my fingers to his heart. ’Twas dead and still. I cursed Grubbe and started up. If I was not to be taken there was only the window, looking on the deeps of the descending valley. I threw back the casement and leaped over the sill. Grubbe should perish, I swore, and I doubled now my oath.

I could ha’ wept for that poor youth that had died to avenge my honor. But my first business was my safety, and I crept down as far as I might and dropped. By that time the catchpolls were crowding into the room above. I struck the slanting hill and fell backward, but, getting to my feet, which were very numb with the concussion of the fall, I sped briskly into the darkness, making for the woods.

I lay in their shelter an hour, and then resolved on a circumspection. ’Twas not my intention to leave the mare behind, if so be she had escaped Grubbe and his creatures; and, moreover, I had other designs in my head. So I made my way back deviously to the inn and reconnoitered. Stillness hung about it, and after a time I marched up to the door cautiously and knocked on it.

The innkeeper opened it, and, the lamp burning on my face, started as if I were the devil.

“Hush, man!” said I. “Is the officer gone?”

He looked at me dubiously and trembling. “Come,” said I, for I knew the reputation of those parts, “I am from Shoreham Gap yonder, and I was near taken for an offense against the revenue.”

“You are a smuggler?” said he anxiously. “They said you were a tobyman.”

“They will take away any decent man’s name,” said I. “I want my horse. You have no fancy for preventive men, I’ll guess.”

And this was true enough, for he had a mine of cellars under his inn and through the roadway.

“But your friend?” said he, still wavering. “Him that is dead——”

“As good a man as ever rolled a barrel,” said I.

He relaxed his grip of the door. “’Tis a sore business for me this night,” he complained.

“Nay,” said I. “For I will rid your premises of myself and friend, by your leave, or without it,” says I.

He seemed relieved at that, and I entered. The horses were safe, as I discovered, for Grubbe must have been too full of his own prime business to make search, and, getting them out, I made my preparations. I strapped the lad’s body in the stirrups, so that he lay forward on the horse with his head a-wagging; but (God deliver him!) his soul at rest. And presently we were on the road, and threading the wilderness of the black pine woods for the vale below toward London.

The moon was a glimmering arc across the Hurtwood as I came out on the back of Shere, and, pulling out of the long lane that gave entry to the village, reined up by the “White Horse.” From the inn streamed a clamor of laughter, and without the doorway and wellnigh blocking it was drawn up a carriage with a coachman on his seat that struck my eyes dimly in the small light. I was not for calling eyes on me with a dead man astride his horse, so I moved into the yard, thinking to drain a tankard of ale if no better, before I took the road over the downs to Effingham. But I was scarce turned into the yard ere a light flaring through the window poured on a face that changed all the notions in my skull. ’Twas Grubbe!

Leaving the horses by I returned to the front of the inn, and says I to the coachman that waited there, as I rapped loud on the door:

“’Tis shrewish tonight.”

“Aye,” says he in a grumbling, surly voice. “I would the country were in hell.”

“Why, so ’twill be in good time,” said I cheerfully; and then to the man that came, “Fetch me two quarts well laced with gin,” says I, “for to keep the chill of the night and the fear o’ death out.”

The coachman laughed a little shortly, for he knew that this was his invitation.

“Whence come you then?” said I, delivering him the pot that was fetched out.

He threw an arm out. “Lewes,” said he, “under charge with a tobyman that was for chains yonder.”

He nodded toward the downs and drank. I cast my eyes up and the loom of the hill just t’other side of the village was black and ominous.

“Oh,” says I, “he hangs there?”

“At the top of London Road,” says he, dipping his nose again. “There stands the gallows, where the roads cross and near the Gate.”

“Gallows Gate,” said I, laughing. “Well, ’twas a merry job enough.”

“Aye,” says he. “But by this we might ha’ been far toward London Town, whither most of us are already gone. But ’twas not his wish. He must come back with the Lewes sheriff and drink him farewell.”

“Leaving a poor likely young man such as yourself to starve of cold and a empty belly here,” said I. “Well, I would learn such a one manners in your place, and you shall have another tankard of dogs-nose for your pains,” says I, whereat I called out the innkeeper again, but took care that he had my share of the gin in addition to his own. By that time he was garrulous, and had lost his caution, so, keeping him in talk a little and dragging his wits along from point to point, I presently called to him.

“Come down,” said I, “and stamp your feet. ’Twill warm you without as the liquor within.” And he did as I had suggested without demur.

“Run round to the back,” says I, “and get yourself a noggin, and if so be you see a gentleman on horseback there asleep, why, ’tis only a friend of mine that is weary of his long journey. I will call you if there be occasion.”

He hesitated a moment, but I set a crown on his palm, and his scruples vanished. He limped into the darkness.

’Twas no more than two minutes later that I heard voices in the doorway, and next came Timothy Grubbe into the night, in talk with someone. At which it took me but thirty seconds to whip me into the seat and pull the coachman’s cloak about me, so that I sat stark and black in the starlight. Grubbe left the man he talked with and came forward.

“You shall drink when ye reach Cobham, Crossway,” says he, looking up at me, “and mind your ways, damn ye!”

And at that he made no more ado, but humming an air he lurched into the carriage. I pulled out the nags, and turned their heads so that they were set for the north. And then I whistled low and short—a whistle I knew that the mare would heed, and I trusted that she would bring her companion with her. The wheels rolled out upon the road and Timothy Grubbe and I were bound for London all alone.

As I turned up the London road that swept steeply up the downs I looked back, and behind the moon shone faintly on Calypso and behind her on the dead man wagging awkwardly in his stirrups.

I pushed the horses on as fast as might be, but the ruts were still deep in mud, and the carriage jolted and rocked and swayed as we went. The wind came now with a little moaning sound from the bottom of the valley, and the naked branches creaked above my head, for that way was sunken and tangled with the thickets of nut and yew. And presently I was forced to go at a foot pace, so abrupt was the height. The moon struck through the trees and peered on us, and Grubbe put his head forth of the window.

“Why go you not faster, damn ye?” says he, being much in liquor.

“’Tis the hill, your honor,” said I.

He glanced up and down.

“What is it comes up behind?” says he, shouting. “There is a noise of horses that pounds upon the road.”

“’Tis the wind,” says I, “that comes off the valley and makes play among the branches.”

He sank back in his seat, and we went forward slowly. But he was presently out again, screaming on the night.

“There is a horseman behind,” says he. “What does he there?”

“’Tis a traveler, your honor,” says I, “that goes, no doubt, by our road, and is bound for London.”

“He shall be bound for hell,” says he tipsily, and falls back again.

The horses wound up foot by foot and emerged now into a space of better light, and I looked around, and there was Grubbe, with his head through the window and his eyes cast backward.

“What fool is this,” says he, “that rides so awkwardly, and drives a spare horse? If he ride no better, I will ask him to keep me company, if he be a gentleman. Many gentlemen have rode along of me, and have rode to the gallows tree,” and he chuckled harshly.

“Maybe he will ride with you to the Gallows Gate, sir,” says I.

“Why, Crossway,” says he, laughing loudly, “you have turned a wit,” and once more withdrew his head.

But now we were nigh to the top of the down, and I could see the faint shadow of the triple beam. With that I knew my journey was done, and that my work must be accomplished. I pulled to the horses on the rise, and got down from my seat.

“Why d’ye stop, rascal?” called Grubbe in a fury, but I was by the door and had it opened.

“Timothy Grubbe,” said I, “ye’re a damned rogue that the devil, your master, wants and he shall have ye.”

He stared at me in a maze, his nostrils working, and then says he in a low voice: “So, ’tis you.”

“Your time has come, Timothy,” said I, flinging off my cloak, and I took my sword. “Out with you, worm.”

He said never a word, but stepped forth, and looked about him. He was sobered now, as I could see from his face, which had a strange look on it.

“Ye’re two rascals to one, Dick,” says he slowly, looking on the dead man on his horse which had come to a stop in the shadows.

“No,” says I, “this gentleman will see fair play for us.”

Grubbe took a step backward. “Sir,” says he, addressing the dead man—but at that moment Calypso and her companion started, and came into the open.

The moon shone on the face of the dead. Grubbe uttered a cry, and turned on me. His teeth showed in a grin.

“No ghost shall haunt me, Dick,” says he. “Rather shall another ghost keep him company,” and his wry neck moved horribly.

I pointed upward where the tobyman hung in chains, keeping his flocks by moonlight. “There’s your destiny,” said I. “There’s your doom. Now defend, damn ye, for I’ll not prick an adder at a disadvantage.”

He drew his blade, for no man could say that Timothy Grubbe, time-server and traitor as he was, lacked courage. Suddenly he sliced at me, but I put out and turned off the blow.

“If you will have it so soon,” said I, “in God’s name have it,” and I ran upon him.

My third stroke went under his guard, and I took him in the midriff. He gave vent to an oath, cursed me in a torrent, and struck at me weakly as he went down.

He was as dead as mutton almost ere he touched the ground.

I have never been a man of the church, nor do I lay any claim to own more religion than such as to make shift by when it comes to the end. No, nor do I deny that I have sundry offenses on my conscience, some of which I have narrated in my memoirs. But when it comes to a reckoning I will make bold to claim credit in that I rid the world he had encumbered of Timothy Grubbe—the foulest ruffian that ever I did encounter in the length of my days on the road.

I climbed the beam and lowered the poor tobyman, and it took me but a little time to make the change. The one I left where he had paid the quittance in the peace of the earth, and t’other a-swinging under the light of the moon on Gallows Gate.

I have said my journey was done, but that was not so. There was more for me to do, which was to deliver poor Masters at his lady-love’s and break the unhappy news. And so, leaving the carriage where it stood with the patient horses that were cropping the grass, I mounted the mare and began to go down the long limb of the downs to the north.

’Twas late—near midnight—when I reached Effingham and found my way to the manor. I rapped on the door, leaving Calypso and t’other in the shadows of the house, and presently one answered to my knock.

“What is it?” says she.

“’Tis a stranger,” says I, “that has news of grave import for Mistress Anne Varley, whom I beg you will call.”

“She cannot hear you,” said she. “’Tis her wedding night.”

“What!” said I in amazement, and instantly there flowed in on me the meaning of this.

“Curse all women save one or two!” thinks I. And I turned to the maid again with my mind made up.

“Look you, wench,” said I. “This is urgent. I have an instant message that presses. And if so be your mistress will bear with me a moment and hold discourse, I’ll warrant she shall not regret it—nor you,” says I, with a crown piece in my palm.

She hesitated and then, “Maybe she will refuse,” says she. “She hath but these few hours been wed.”

“Not she,” said I, “if you will tell her that I bring good news, great news—news that will ease her spirit and send her to her bridal bed with a happy heart.”

At that she seemed to assent, and with my crown in her hand she disappeared into the darkening of the house. It must have been some ten minutes later that a light flashed in the hall and a voice called to me.

“Who is it?” it asked, “and what want you at this hour?”

I looked at her. She was of a pretty face enough, rather pale of color, and with eyes that moved restlessly and measured all things. Lord, I have known women all my life in all stations, and I would ha’ pinned no certainty on those treacherous eyes. She was young, too, but had an air of satisfaction in herself, and was in no wise embarrassed by this interview. I had no mercy on her, with her oaths of constancy writ in water that figured to be tears and her false features.

“Madam,” said I civilly, “I hear you’re wed today to a gentleman of standing.”

“What is that to you, sir?” she asked quickly.

“’Tis nothing, for sure,” said I, “but to a friend of mine that I value deeply ’tis much.”

“You speak of Mr. Masters,” said she sharply, and with discomposure. “Sure, if he be a gentleman, he will not trouble me when he knows.”

“Anne!” said a voice from the top of the stairs, “Anne!”

’Twas her bridegroom calling. Well, she should go to him in what mood she might when I had done with her.

“He will never know,” says I, “unless he hear it from yourself.”

“Anne!” said the voice above the stairs.

“He shall not—I will not,” she cried angrily. “I will not be persecuted. ’Twas all a mistake.”

I whistled. Calypso emerged from the night, and behind Calypso was the horse with its burden. An anxious look dawned in her face. “I am insulted,” says she and paused quickly.

“Edward!” she called, and put a hand to her bosom.

“Anne, darling!” cried the voice, “where are you? Come, child, ’tis late.”

The horse came to a stop before the door with the body on the saddle, bound to the crupper.

“What is it?” she cried in alarm, and suddenly she shrieked, recognizing what was there. “It is an omen—my wedding night!”

“Aye,” says I, “which be your bridegroom, he that calls or he that is silent? Call on him and he hears not.”

Peal after peal went up now from her, and the house was awake with alarm. I turned away, leaving her on the doorstep, and mounted the mare.

As I cantered off into the night I cast a glance behind me, and a group was gathered at the door, and in that group lay Mistress Anne fallen in a swoon, with the sleeping figure on the horse before her.